CHAPTER 15
By the end of the first week play-acting as husband and wife, Elizabeth and Darcy had discovered that the idea of marriage had consisted of a surprising number of very small things.
It hadn’t meant grand declarations of affection or elegant ballrooms, but very simple things, like remembering how another person preferred their tea.
Or, reaching for the last slice of bread, but insisting the other should have it.
Or, anticipating another’s needs before they had expressed them.
Each morning, their day began in much the same manner. A quiet knock upon the communicating door. She would rise, open it a few inches, and find Darcy already dressed for the day.
"Good morning, Miss Bennet."
"Good morning, Mr. Darcy."
The greeting never varied, and then there would come the inevitable interruption. A cheerful knock from the passage.
"Good morning, Mrs. Darcy!"
The transformation occurred almost instantly. Elizabeth's smile would widen ever so slightly. "Good morning, Mrs. Kewley."
Darcy, who only moments before had addressed her with studied formality, would naturally inquire whether she had slept well or whether she required anything before breakfast. It was an absurd performance, but each day it became less difficult.
And, it was because either had grown comfortable with deception, but because they had grown comfortable with one another.
Mrs. Kewley, wholly unaware that she was educating her guests, proved an enthusiastic instructor in the ordinary expectations of married life.
"You'll have your husband's tea growing cold," she would remark. Or, "Mr. Darcy, you've forgotten your gloves again. Mrs. Darcy, you must keep better watch over him."
Elizabeth invariably protested, "I hardly think Mr. Darcy requires supervision."
Mrs. Kewley only laughed, "My dear, every husband requires supervision. Mine simply stopped pretending otherwise twenty years ago."
Thomas, without looking up from his breakfast, merely nodded. "Thirty."
"No, it was twenty, Thomas, don’t be silly."
"Thirty," he would reply with eyes raised upwards, in a teasing expression.
Elizabeth looked toward Darcy. He returned her glance with perfect gravity. "I believe I must side with Mrs. Kewley," he said. "She appears to possess the stronger memory, and, I suspect, the final authority."
Mrs. Kewley pointed triumphantly with her spoon, "You see? Your husband understands these matters perfectly, Mrs. Darcy."
Elizabeth lowered her eyes to conceal her smile, "I begin to fear he does."
***
That evening, after another long day, Elizabeth accompanying Mrs. Kewley on her visits throughout the village, and Darcy assisting Mr. Kewley and the harbor men with the endless work of clearing debris and rebuilding the damaged quay, the little party returned to the cottage tired, damp from the sea air, and grateful for the warmth that greeted them.
The familiar routine unfolded almost without thought. Mrs. Kewley disappeared into the kitchen with the determined air of a woman incapable of sitting idle while supper remained unprepared. "There must be something deserving of butter," she declared. "If there is not, I shall find it."
Mr. Kewley chuckled, "And I had better escape before I am enlisted." With that, he withdrew to the small office adjoining the passage, carrying a stack of ledgers beneath one arm. "The cottage does not cease producing bills merely because the harbor has washed itself into the sea."
Within moments, the cottage grew unexpectedly quiet.
And, for the first time all day, Darcy and Elizabeth found themselves alone.
They were not truly alone, of course. The sounds of Mrs. Kewley moving about the kitchen drifted through the open doorway, accompanied by the occasional clatter of pans and the unmistakable evidence of someone conducting a vigorous argument with a stubborn loaf of bread.
Mr. Kewley could be heard humming softly in the next room as he turned the pages of his accounts.
However, the sitting room belonged, for the moment, to Elizabeth and Darcy, and neither seemed to find the silence uncomfortable any longer.
Darcy crossed to the hearth, where the fire had begun to settle into glowing embers. Selecting another log from the basket beside the fireplace, he laid it carefully upon the flames before glancing instinctively toward Elizabeth. "Are you warm enough?"
She looked up from her sewing with a small smile, "I am perfectly comfortable."
He nodded once, apparently satisfied, and returned his attention to coaxing the flames into fresh life.
Elizabeth watched him for a moment, "Do you know, Mr. Darcy, you ask me that every evening."
Without looking around, he answered, "Do I?"
She smiled, and replied, "Yes, you do."
"I supposed he had not noticed." Thinking internally, he realized he had in fact not noticed that he was in the habit of ensuring Elizabeth was warm.
"Well, I have, sir, and I have not given you a conflicting answer yet," she added teasingly.
The corners of his mouth threatened to betray him, "Then perhaps I continue asking in hope."
Elizabeth laughed, "I was not aware you possessed so optimistic a disposition."
He turned now, looking at her with slightly raised eyebrows, in response, "I would have you know that I reserve that optimism only for matters of consequence."
She shook her head, still smiling, before setting aside her sewing and crossing to the bookshelf that occupied one wall of the little parlor. Her fingers wandered over the familiar spines until she selected the volume she had been reading.
Then she paused. Looking over her shoulder, she asked, "Mr. Darcy, shall I bring yours as well?"
The question escaped so naturally that neither of them appreciated its significance until after it had been spoken. Darcy looked up, "My book?"
"Yes, you generally read after supper," she hesitated.
"I do," he replied matter of factly.
"I thought..." She glanced toward the shelves. "I thought you might wish for it."
Darcy found that knowledge strangely pleasing, "If it is not too much trouble."
Elizabeth regarded him with mock severity, "You have been hauling timber all day, Mr. Darcy. I believe I can manage a single volume."
She had emphasized the words ‘single volume’. And, Darcy let out a laugh at her, sensing the pertness in her tone, and replied, “Very well, I should like to read.”
Elizabeth examined the shelves before returning with two books, handing his to him, and Darcy accepted it, "Thank you."
"You are very welcome," she said with a teasing look, and they resumed their places by the fire.
Several quiet moments passed as each attempted to read. Though, after scarcely five minutes, Elizabeth lowered her book, exhaling. "You have not turned a page."
Darcy looked up, "Excuse me?"
“You are either distracted or excessively bored, for you have not turned a page, Mr. Darcy.”
He glanced down at the open volume resting upon his knee. She was right, he was distracted, but he could not admit that it was she that distracted him so utterly that evening. Finally, he said, “It is a very reflective chapter."
She leaned forward slightly, "What is the subject?"
He studied the page as though seeing it for the first time, "A history of... sheep."
Elizabeth scrunched her nose, "Sheep?"
"It would appear so," he said in an ever serious tone.
She felt the urge to punish him a bit for his gravity and said, "And the sheep inspire deep contemplation?"
"More than one might expect," he said, folding his hands together.
She laughed outright at this, "I believe, Mr. Darcy, that if sheep have occupied your thoughts for the last five minutes, they deserve every compliment their historian has paid them."
He ought not to, but felt the need to tease Elizabeth, as he knew she was teasing him, And, so, he took a chance and looked at her with perfect seriousness, saying, "I confess they have received rather less of my attention than they deserve."
"Oh?" She looked surprised, and he noticed a slight blush blooming in a way that became her.
He nodded, "My thoughts were elsewhere."
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, "And where, may I ask, have they wandered?"
Darcy met her eyes, still seeing the blush hinting her soft cheeks, "For once, Mrs. Darcy, I believe I shall keep that information to myself.
" He gave just enough emphasis to the borrowed title that Elizabeth immediately recognized his intention.
It was a gentle retaliation for the many occasions on which she had teased him, offered with such perfect gravity that anyone overhearing would have mistaken it for an ordinary address.
She pretended to look disappointed, "How very disappointing. I had hoped for a thorough discourse on the intellectual merits of sheep."
"I fear I could not do the subject justice," he replied in turn.
"No?" she paused, narrowing her eyes at him, "So that is your game, is it?"
He pretended to look affronted, "I do not know what you mean."
"You do."